


The Aftermath

by AngryPirateHusbands



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Everyone Is Gay, Feels, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Injury, M/M, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:35:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8319340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngryPirateHusbands/pseuds/AngryPirateHusbands
Summary: Takes place during S3.Immediately after the fall of Charlestown Flint finds himself thrown into the depths of uncertainty. Silver has lost his leg and Flint remains at his side, clinging to that last remnant of normalcy and peace.





	

Flint had never been so uncertain of his next course of action. The events of Charlestown had shaken him to his very center, wreaking havoc in his mind. The trauma of Miranda's sudden death, Ashe's betrayal... Not to mention his last hope for freeing Nassau had been found a failure. The last thing he had expected upon climbing back over the side of his ship was for those last few remnants of normalcy to have been torn apart. He had known that Vane had succeeded in taking over the Spanish Man O' War. The fact that there had been casualties in the scuffle was a given. Yet when Billy gave him that incredulous look in response to his order to release Vane's men, he couldn't have grasped the gravity as to why. Not until they had hoisted the sails and left Charlestown but a smoking husk along the shoreline.

Flint had told Billy to send Silver up to his cabin as soon as possible. The cook was the only one he trusted to give an accurate account of what had occurred aboard the ship during his absence. Which was ironic considering how he even came to be a part of this crew. But nonetheless, the men here had come to trust him. He knew what went on below decks when he was out of earshot; he knew they said, what they thought. Not to mention he was quite skilled with that silver tongue of his, and could shape their thoughts and actions to better coincide with his own plans. Right now he relied on that talent more than ever. With little remaining hope for Nassau and the Urca gold a distant memory, he needed his knowledge so that they could plan out their next moves.

However, his order had been met with silence instead of the usual "yes, Captain". When Flint turned towards Billy he saw that his expression had shifted to one of uncertainty. He seemed to be at a loss for words. Immediately Flint's thoughts shifted to wonder what trouble Silver could have possibly stirred up this time. Yet as the bosun led him down to the room Howell used for his practice, it became apparent that this was not a matter of what he had done, but what had been done to _him_. 

John Silver was never one for engaging in combat, that much was certain. When he was aboard that merchant ship he had hidden below to avoid the violence. Not to mention later when they were overtaking the Spanish Man O' War, his ineptitude and discomfort when wielding weapons was obvious. And so he never gave much thought to the idea of him being wounded. Silver was not a part of this crew for his physical prowess; there was none. He was here because he wielded his mind and tongue better than any blade or pistol. The man was only of use if he was alive, and he knew that, so he typically avoided the conflict when taking prizes. How he had found himself thrown into the center of the fighting this time he wasn't certain.

The room below reeked of blood and vomit. Flint's nose wrinkled as he passed by the scarlet-stained work table, piercing green eyes lingering over Howell's tools that were still sprawled out haphazardly. Something laid in the center of the table beneath a soaked piece of canvas. Howell stood nearby cleaning his hands on a rag; or perhaps he was simply wringing his hands out of worry. After a moment he gave a curt nod before angling his head towards the corner. Flint could feel his heart sink deep into his stomach before he even turned to where he had motioned.

There Silver was, lying on a makeshift bed with an empty space where the lower part of his leg should be. Flint's expression hardened, the muscles in his neck and shoulders locking into place as he stared down at the man. Despite the lack of color in his face his chest continued to rise and fall in a steady, albeit slow, rhythm. Flint tore his eyes away from Silver's face to instead travel over his leg; or rather what was left of it. It had been amputated just below the bend of his knee. As he looked over the bloodied bandages it became apparent what laid covered on the surgeon's table.

"The fuck did this happen?" he demanded. His voice was low and almost quaked with anger.

Quickly Billy explained it to him. How when Vane's men overtook the ship Silver had somehow managed to evade the violence and hide. This was not a surprise. What did catch him off guard was how instead of remaining hidden he had instead risked his life to sever the rigging of the foremast. This alone had not just saved the lives of his crew from a swift execution, but it had inadvertently secured his own rescue as well. Though the details became a bit muddied after that, Silver had somehow been singled out and dragged away to be interrogated by Vane's quartermaster. He had wanted the names of ten men that would abandon him and the crew to save their own skin. When Silver refused, well... the man had resorted to torture in an effort to change his mind.

Flint gave a shake of his head as his mind worked to process this new information. How..? This was a man whose sole motivation revolved around either recovering the Urca gold or ensuring his own survival. This was something he had proved time and time again and yet here he was, lying half dead because of a sudden change of heart. A change that weighed the lives of the crew above his own. Eyes closed as he released an even breath. "Round up a few men and move him to my quarters," he ordered. "The seat by the window.. he can stay there until he recovers. If he remains here he will likely succumb to infection." As he spoke he glanced at Howell to affirm his thought process, which he did with a slight nod.

* * *

Flint now rested in his cabin. He lounged back in the chair that he had dragged away from his desk so that he could keep a better eye on Silver. Fingers stroked slowly over the coarse hair of his beard as he remained lost in thought. When he heard the man's breath hitch his gaze traveled back up to his face. Pain twisted Silver's usually smooth features as he shifted in his sleep. Fingers clutched the edge of the blanket that covered him until his knuckles turned white. It had been a full day since they had left Charlestown and Silver had yet to completely regain consciousness. Not that this was unusual or unexpected. Considering the sheer trauma and blood loss he had suffered he was impressed that he was alive at all.

Flint found himself watching the man with a keen interest very few had ever captured. Green eyes took in every detail of Silver's face with a hard gaze, just as he wished he had done days ago before that bullet pierced Miranda's temple. With a slow blink he pushed the thoughts from his mind and focused on what was in front of him. A light shadow of stubble had formed during their voyage and his hair had begun to grow long. A few stray locks were stuck to his face and neck, matted down from a cold sweat.

Suddenly his lips parted as he drew in another ragged breath. While Howell had done all that he could, as with all such injuries the work had to be quick, and so the stump was crude at best. The man had caught a brief look when Howell changed the soiled bandages. As he did so he had explained that the pain from his injury, while manageable with opium, would likely never go away. This only reminded him of how Silver had confessed his exceptionally low tolerance for pain. If any of that had been true, well... the man was in for a long and slow recovery.

When Silver's eyes finally slid open, it took Flint a long moment to register the fact that the man was finally conscious. The captain braced in his chair as he watched those bright blue eyes move about the room before settling on where he sat. Suddenly his lips twisted into a grimace and he reached down to grip his injured leg. " _Fuck_ ," he rasped. The man's voice was broken and raw.

Flint stood before sauntering over to his desk. Silver's eyes seemed to follow him for a few moments before squeezing shut from another bout of pain. Fresh beads of sweat had blossomed along his hairline when Flint returned to his side. He had poured him a cup of water which he offered to him now. When Silver only managed to give a small shake of his head he frowned. Setting the mug aside for a piece he moved to help Silver sit up, Flint remained silent as he adjusted the pillow behind his back and dragged his chair closer. This time he held the metal cup to his lips and titled it so that he could drink.

Silver 's hands raised to grasp the cup as he suddenly realized just how thirsty he had become. He drank in long droughts before handing it back, empty. "Thank you," he breathed, the words just above a whisper. The man's brow furrowed as his eyes took in the sight before him. The way the blanket that covered him sloped down just below his knee where the rest of his leg used to be. With tentative fingers he raised the sheet and took in a trembling breath. He didn't look long before allowing the blanket to cover the stump once more. "Fuck..." he repeated.

Flint watched quietly as a range of emotions moved over Silver's face in quick succession. Anger, unease, perhaps sadness from the loss.. But what stood out was the fear. The man was usually just as guarded as he was, but not now. Not with what had just happened. Flint realized now that Silver's own life had been suddenly torn from beneath his feet. For both of them everything had changed so drastically, though obviously in vastly different ways.

"How do you feel?" Flint eventually asked. His hands were clasped in front of him, his forearms resting heavily on his knees as he observed the man with a careful gaze.

Despite the obvious pain in his features Silver managed a snort of derision. "How do you think?" he countered. He delivered a quick glance in his direction before taking in a ragged breath, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. Flint reached behind him to grab the opium pipe Howell had prepared and left behind. However, when he held it out Silver refused with a shake of his head. "No," he struggled. "No opium."

Flint's expression hardened. "You can't be serious," he stated, his tone incredulous.

Silver only shook his head. His knuckles were blanched as they gripped the muscle above his knee. "Do you have any rum?"

" _Fucking Christ,_ " Flint swore as he pulled himself up. This wasn't the time to be stubborn. He reached across the desk to grab a half bottle of rum, rough fingers pulling the cork free before shoving the dark bottle in Silver's face. The man grasped it and took a long swig, a small dribble running down his chin as he tried to drink too much too quickly. Once sated he drew in a gulp of air. "Better?" 

Silver shook his head. "Soon, hopefully."

"Now, why are you refusing the pipe?" Flint asked, genuinely curious as he accepted the bottle back. Only a small amount of liquid remained at the bottom. Still, the man looked as though he could pass out any moment from the pain.

"Would you take opium?"

An eyebrow rose at the question. "No," Flint admitted as he returned to his seat. "But I have a ship to run and a crew to keep reigned in."

Silver didn't say more on the matter and Flint didn't push. Instead he simply watched the man, noting how after a few minutes his expression began to soften if only just. The liquor was taking its effect, it seemed. Those crystal blue eyes closed as Silver swallowed a deep lump in his throat. When they opened again they were slightly damp and dull with a curious haze. After another few moments he averted his gaze from his leg and settled back against the pillow. "So," he asked softly, "How did things fare on your end..?" When Flint didn't answer he turned his head slightly to take in that hard stare.

Flint felt his breath leave him. Quickly he looked away from the weakened man before him, not wanting him to notice the pain in his eyes. His thumb slowly twirled the thick ring that rested on his middle finger. It was a nervous tick of his. For some reason playing with his rings or twiddling his thumbs helped to calm his mind as he thought. This instance was no exception. After a few moments of silence he finally spoke. "He killed her," he offered softly.

When Flint's eyes finally flicked back upward they met Silver's gaze. His eyes were soft and he could swear he saw something meaningful in those depths. Empathy, perhaps? "I'm sorry." Silver struggled. His words were just barely above a whisper as he appeared to wrestling to remain conscious. The rum had started to make his features grow slack, his eyes slipping closed briefly as his hand fidgeted restlessly at his side. Even in this state Flint could tell that the man's words came from a genuine place.

Eventually Silver's head titled to the side as he finally succumbed to the rum's comforting embrace. This time, however, it appeared that he slept somewhat soundly. Flint felt his own body grow at ease as he settled back into the chair. Still, his eyes remained on Silver's face. The man would live, that much was certain. He was far too stubborn to die now.

Soon Flint's expression faltered and he sighed, calloused hands moving up to gently rub against his face. There was a pit in the center of his stomach that weighed heavily like a stone. Though he hated to admit it, even silently within his own mind, he was worried. Worried for the lying thief, the terrible cook, the stubborn _shit_ of a man that had connived his way into his life. Their physical affair was brief and had only just begun, but now as he sat here watching the man... He could no longer deny that there wasn't _something_ about him. Something that made him stand out apart from the rest of the crew.

He wanted him, needed him. And not just for his partnership, or for his help in sorting out this troublesome mess of securing Nassau's future, but for entirely selfish and personal reasons. He had already lost so much... Thomas, his home and old life in London, and now Miranda. He couldn't lose Silver too. The man was that final thread that was managing to keep the fraying seams of his mind together. Somehow. And so Flint sat back and simply watched the gentle rise and fall of Silver's chest, knowing that when he woke again he would be there for him, even if it was only to offer him another drink.


End file.
